It all started out as a bit of a goat (if you'll forgive me the pun), or at least as a self-badgering trip. I mean, let's face it, the odds were clearly against me. I had slept three hours at most (for the fifth consecutive night) and my inspiration levels were at 340 degrees below zero.
These were my raw materials:
There was no pattern, no instructions, only a beautiful picture in a Japanese craft book that I do not own (and those are only good for beating yourself over the head with for not coming up to their level) and that dirty bit of shopping list I'd found next to the sink a couple of posts ago.
My brain was fried. My mood was horrid. I hated those socks.
But then something happened. As I was grumpily going through vague cutting and sewing motions, it suddenly hit me that these two socks, among all other old, raggedy, unmatched socks in Marc's sock drawer... these two socks were going to be saved, they were going to be seen, they were going to be loved.
Thanks to me.
And that thought actually made me cry (see three-and-a-half paragraphs above for some reasons why the fact that I cried about a pair of socks coming to life is not entirely to be blamed on my congenital insanity). And so I slowed down, and started working with love. Working as if I meant every stitch.
And she came out beautiful, my Céleste, shaming that grey elephant boy over on the Japanese craft cover.
But more importantly, she made me happy.
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